Now I'm alive to tell the story, so It really mustn't have been that bad! Before I tell the ugly story, I have to tell the good one from today.
To suggest that no one had maintained the bridge since it was built a hundred years ago and survived a nasty multi-year war, would be stretching the truth...I think.
We started walking across the bridge that spans the Red River along the narrow sidewalk that separates the few crazy pedestrians from the scooter traffic and centre rail line. It's narrow enough for only one person at a time; George led the way, followed by Barry, then Molly and me. It's a good thing I went last because I wouldn't have led us onto this contraption that had my heart palpitating for the 2km span.
It's funny how your brain sends signals to not do something, while the same brain ignores the alerts and fear and puts one foot in front of the other. Remember the old dunk tanks at the carnivals where you willingly sit on a stool you know will collapse when someone throws a ball successfully at the target? You know you'll fall. You know you'll get wet. You're just waiting to plunge. Well, walking across the bridge today felt like that...every...step...of....the...way. Each step on too-thin, too-narrow slabs of concrete reminded me of stepping onto the collapsable dunk tank seat. One step might just crack the concrete in half and you plummet through the bridge straight into the murky river far below.
I tried not to look down as I could see straight through the rain slats to the river, but the slabs were uneven and tripping was not an option as the traffic was so close you could feel the breeze of the scooters on your arms. So this was my view.
Needless to say we made it across this horrible bridge intact and I was actually much more at peace walking amongst the crazy scooter traffic on solid ground.
Eiffel should have stuck to designing towers.
This is a bit of what we saw.